


It's Because He Thinks He's Funny

by inthisdive



Category: Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US), Scissor Sisters
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 08:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3320180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthisdive/pseuds/inthisdive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(This was written in 2008). Anderson is so, so rarely witty. Jake Shears often is. Somehow, this works for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Because He Thinks He's Funny

“My boyfriend,” Anderson said, giving Jake what he hoped was a slightly ironic smile, “has the worst taste in music that I've ever encountered.” 

“Apart from your own,” Jake interjected, helpfully. 

“Yeah, apart from my – shut up.” 

Jake laughed, adding cream to his coffee. “I'm listening, I'm listening.” 

“Anyway, I'm serious. It's terrible - I don't know how you can drink that stuff. It's hot. Who wants to burn their tongue on hot liquid twice a day?” Anderson wrinkled his nose. He really, really did not like the entire concept of coffee. He suspected that was part of the reason why he and Jake were meeting for the afternoon at this cafe instead of either of their apartments; Jake had a demonstrated history of showing his fondness for Anderson by torturing him, and that was part of the reason why Anderson liked him so much, 

Jake just rolled his eyes. He'd heard the Anderson-Cooper-Hates-Coffee spiel more times than he could count. “I like to live dangerously. Drink your Shirley Temple –“

“It's Diet Coke.” 

“Drink your Shirley Temple and get back to the story.” Jake grinned and lit a cigarette, and Anderson gave in and smiled back. As much as Jake always set out to annoy him, Anderson was really too attached to his friend to mind. 

“Right. His music taste is-” 

“Terrible, you told me this part.” Jake gifted Anderson with a theatrical sigh. “The minutes of my life are ticking away.” 

“I think the pills are more to blame for that than my storytelling skills.” 

“I think a journalist should have better storytelling skills,” Jake shot back. They looked at each other… and, as usual, Anderson caved first – he laughed. 

“Anyway, so, he likes--” Anderson began, but Jake, exhaling and lowering his cigarette in time to cut off his sentence, pointed a finger at him. 

“I know where this is going!” 

“You can't possibly. I haven't even told you who I'm dating.” Anderson was proud of that, really. Jake had a certain way with him in that secrets suddenly became confidences between he and Jake which then became confidences between Jake and his partner Chris, and Jake and Ana Matronic, and Ana and her partner Seth, and Jake and Del Marquis, and Del Marquis and Brace Paine, and Brace Paine and the Gossip, and Jake and the rest of the band on the way, and, worst of all, Jake and Anderson's _mother_ , ensuring that everyone in the greater New York City area knew exactly what Anderson was up to. Really, it was a miracle that Anderson hadn't been publicly, definitively outed yet. 

“I know who you're dating. It's our Ryan. Seacrest.” 

Anderson accidentally knocked over his diet coke. Yelped. 

“America's sweetheart,” Jake continued blithely, stubbing out his cigarette on his coffee cup and leaning back in his chair. 

“I saw _Get Smart_ too, you know, I know you didn't invent that phrase for him,” Anderson retorted half-heatedly, fumbling with napkins. A red, splotchy blush had sprung up on his cheeks. 

“Of course you saw it.” Jake grinned. “Your boyfriend was in it.”

“I don't know how you can even remember movie quotes,” Anderson commented, a faint edge of hysteria in his voice, mopping up the diet coke on the table. Some of it had puddled in Jake's coffeespoon; he left that unmopped. 

“See, drugs are good for you, kids!” 

“Last week, you forgot the name of your tortoise. Addict.” A pause, then, “Does everyone know?” 

“No. They should -” and here Jake's voice had taken on that serious tone, the one that made Anderson feel uncomfortable, usually because it had something to do with gay rights and making Anderson feel like a hypocrite, “--but they don't.” 

Anderson's relief was palpable; he forgot about the mess and sighed. Jake lit another cigarette. 

It had always been a touchy subject between Jake and Anderson; closeting, or, as apparently was the more correct term for Anderson, glass closeting, 'hiding in plain sight.' Jake found it offensive and, as he'd said once, “Fucking stupid. Everyone knows anyway? So just say it.” When Anderson had pointed out that his sexuality could actually threaten his life in certain foreign correspondence scenarios, Jake had just scoffed. Eventually, they'd settled into a weird agree-to-disagree state of being, but Anderson knew that his pseudo-closeting was something that Jake would never accept; that they weren't as close as they could be because of it. 

“How did you find out?” Anderson ventured, curious. 

“You really think that _Ryan Seacrest_ , America's favourite secret fag, and I, do not have the same friends?” 

“Why is it okay for _him_ to be closeted when-- forget it.” Anderson shook his head. “We're trying to keep it quiet.” 

“Everyone with eyes and a gaydar knows.” Jake winked – and then, in his best Ryan-Seacrest's-radio-voice impression, added, “Oh Anderson, please call into KIIS FM and we'll talk about how hot we are!” 

Anderson grinned, but countered, “He does that with everyone. Even Pete Wentz. Even Matt fucking Lauer.” 

“Everyone knows,” Jake said again, downing his coffee and signaling for a refill. That gesture was enough for Anderson to relax completely; clearly no rebuke on being a bad role-model was coming today. 

“I hate Matt Lauer.” 

“He _is_ kind of cute in a – I don't know, journalistic kind of way,” Jake said, gazing into the distance (or possibly at the butt of a waiter across the room, Anderson couldn't quite tell). “Did you see that picture of his _abs_?”

“Too many times.” Anderson did not like Matt Lauer.

Jake waved his hands, apparently done with either the horizon or the waiter (who, Anderson noticed, looked a little like Chris from the back). “So, back to cuter specimens. Ryan Seacrest-Out.”

Anderson was pleased. “Jealous?” 

“Ugh, only eighty percent. He's no Chris,” Jake added, loyal as always to the one person, his partner, that Jake had ever been interested in for more than five minutes.

“He is unique.” 

“You mean neurotic.” 

Anderson grinned, spread his hands. “Same thing.”

“Ugh, I hate new love,” The coffee arrived, and Jake flashed the waiter a smile – on his default setting of 'flirtatious' – pouncing on the again-full cup, bringing it to his lips and drinking. Anderson tried to ignore the fresh-roast smell. 

“I think,” he said, still grinning, feeling quite playful for once, “you only hate it because it was, what, six years since you had it?” 

Jake nodded, eyes closed, his concentration going to the taste of the coffee rather than Anderson, Anderson noticed. 'What is that, Irish?” 

“Brazilian.” And then something wicked flashed over those too-big Jason Sellards eyes, and he added, “Like your ex-boyfriend.” 

“We're talking about the current boyfriend,” Anderson reminded him, suppressing a cringe. Bad breakup. 

“Oh – yeah. What were you saying about him, anyway?” 

“I was saying, before you started talking too much and potentially made me late for tonight's broadcast, that he has terrible taste in music?” 

“Yeah?” Jake asked, eyes back open and on Anderson's blue ones, head tilted to the side in the classic pose of curiosity. Silently, Anderson thanked Jake's fried memory, and summoned back _that_ smile. 

“Yeah, it's awful.” 

“Well, who does he like?” Jake asked, sitting up straight.

“The Scissor Sisters.” Anderson smirked. 

Jake scowled.

 

** 

_fin_


End file.
